Snatched Away
by TheGameIsOn-Geronimo
Summary: No one knows about Sherlock's Past. "Has he ever had any kind of ... girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?" but don't worry John Watson's on the case and he doesn't know what he might find...
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Bang.

_Bang!_

_BANG!_

The noise resounded through the flat to where John was trying to read in his bedroom. Sighing, he got to his feet and headed into the living room. He looked at Sherlock, who was lounging in an armchair waving a gun, at the wall.

"If you're bored, you could do something productive?" John told him, leaning in the door way, crossing his arms.

Sherlock's eyes opened, he sent John a glare and another bullet crashing into the wall. John winced at the close proximity to the noise.

"Like what?" Sherlock snarled.

"Like dusting." John said, throwing the duster from the kitchen table at him. "Seeing as Mrs Hudson is away we have to do the housework."

Sherlock didn't even move to catch the duster and it landed by his feet.

"That's boring." He drawled.

"I'll have to do it then." John sighed. "It means I'll have to go into your room. Anything I should know about?"

Sherlock didn't reply, just gave a noncommittal grunt.

"Fine, then" John muttered to himself, "Why bother?"

He walked forward, scooped up the duster up from the floor and headed to Sherlock's room. Apprehensively, he pushed the door ajar and walked in. Nothing completely disgusting or terrifying greeted him, but as he looked around he noticed what looked like something unhygienic on the second shelf above the bed, and made a mental note to avoid that area.

He walked across the room and started dusting with a brusqueness that only years in the army could create. Before long he had covered half the room and then turned to the chest of drawers. He started dusting the items on top of the drawers: a gun, beakers, jars of chemicals and a certificate being propped up by one of the jars. John carefully dusted around all of them and then accidently knocked the certificate over with his elbow. He jumped and just managed to catch a jar of copper sulphate, which had been displaced off the top. He carefully reached for the certificate and then stopped, looking at what was behind it.

He frowned, reaching over the certificate to pick up the item behind it. It was coated in dust, clearly not noticed behind the certificate. He wiped off the dust and gasped, almost dropping it.

It was a photo frame with a single photo inside.

He drew his other hand away from his mouth and stared at it. The man in the picture was quite obviously Sherlock, but there was something different about him. His hair was lighter, more ginger, his cheek bones were less prominent and there were rosy circles on each of his cheeks. A large bright smile was on his face, his eyes alive and glittering from a long forgotten joke. He looked younger, much younger. But that wasn't the thing that stood out to John.

There was a woman in the picture. Clearly the same age as Sherlock, at this point. She had long, wavy blonde hair and bright brown eyes. She had her arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck and her face pressed next to Sherlock's, a beaming smile lighting up her features.

John looked toward the door and then back at the photo. Sherlock nowadays would never allow such physical contact, would never let a girl hug him that close. There was something about the Sherlock in the picture that John had never seen in the present Sherlock. He looked happier, healthier. There was no hint of boredom on his features, but there was still the look of knowing everything in his eyes.

John looked at the door again, a thousand question popping into his head. _When was this? Who's the girl? What is she to Sherlock? Where is she now?_

Realising he'd been standing there gaping for the last five minutes, he hurriedly pulled out his phone, knowing Sherlock would instantly notice if the picture was missing. He snapped a quick picture of it, put it back on the chest of drawers and picked the certificate back up, hiding the photo from view once more.

He put his phone in his pocket, quickly finished dusting and then headed towards to the door. He need answers, but who to ask. Sherlock? Or someone else? Mycroft? Lestrade?

He walked out of the room and stood in the doorway to the kitchen, looking at Sherlock who was now stretched out on the couch, his gun discarded on the floor.

No, he couldn't ask him. No. He had no idea what this was about. I could be something personal or private, besides he didn't want Sherlock to know he'd found the photo. Who was the next best person to ask then?

Making up his mind, John collected his coat and keys.

"I'm going out." He said to Sherlock.

He didn't reply.

John shook his head in exasperation and then headed down the stairs. He walked out onto the street and hailed a cab to Scotland Yard.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: So here's chapter two :D It's quite short so hopefully I'll get another chapter up in the next few days. Thank you to everyone who's read and enjoyed the start of this story, especially to those who've reviewed :D It means a lot to know people are enjoying it :)**

**Chapter 2**

John stepped out of the cab and looked up at the big, modern building of Scotland Yard. Nerves coiled in his gut. He still wasn't completely sure he wanted to know the answers to his questions. He didn't even know if Lestrade would know the answers.

He shook his doubts away and stepped forwards, pushing open the heavy doors and headed up the stairs to Lestrade's office. As he passed, vaguely familiar officers smiled at him. He was well known in Scotland Yard now, the only one who could actually control Sherlock Holmes. He got to the right floor and walked passed desks stacked with papers, case files and criminal record. Donovan looked up at him and gave him a look halfway between a scowl and a smirk. He ignored her and knocked on Lestrade's door.

"Enter,' came Lestrade's gruff voice.

John pushed open the door and wandered in. Lestrade looked at him, leaned back in his chair and mumbled around a mouthful of doughnut. "Hi, John. Sorry, we don't have a case for Sherlock. I'll call when we get one."

John grinned, knowing Lestrade felt sorry for him having to live with Sherlock while he was in his fits of boredom.

"That's okay," he reassured him. "I didn't come for a case."

Lestrade frowned at him and leaned forward again, leaning on his desk, almost knocking over a large pile of paper work, a cup of coffee and the remains of his doughnut. "Oh?"

John sighed, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He pulled it out and flicked through the images, until he found the one he was looking for. He held it out to Greg, looking for some sort of reaction.

Lestrade looked at him in confusion, then reached forward and took the phone. He glanced at the screen and then gasped, his eyes growing large and his face pale.

"What?" John asked, confused- that hadn't been the reaction he had expected.

"Where did you get that?" Lestrade asked, cautiously, handing the phone back to him.

"I found it," John admitted. "In Sherlock's room," he added quietly.

"Right, well if that's the case, I would delete the picture and forget about. It's none of your business."

John looked at him, his confusion rapidly growing. "No- I can't just forget about this. Look at him and her!" he exclaimed, holding out the phone again. "Who is she? When was this? Do you know anything about this?" All John wanted was answers.

Lestrade stood up. "Look, John," he started slowly. "The story behind that picture is in the past. It's not coming back and I'm not going to be the one who tells you about it. That is Sherlock's job. Ask him about it! He'll either tell you, or he won't."

"You know he won't talk to me about this!" John almost yelled, gesturing to the phone wildly. "He doesn't talk about feeling or people. Please," he begged. "I need to know."

Lestrade looked at him, pure, utter sadness and defeat in his eyes. "Alright," he agreed, giving in, "What do you want to know?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Okay," John hesitated, "Who is she?"

"That's Eleanor, Eleanor Young. Very nice girl." Lestrade answered, sounding reluctant to give much away.

"Right." John nodded. "Do you know when this was?"

"Umm," Lestrade frowned at the picture. "I'd say around the time I met them, 5 years ago."

"What were they to each other?" The questions were starting to come thick and fast now, each trying to be the first to be asked.

"Well, I don't know." Lestrade answered, truthfully, "They loved each other, I think. But, it was also more than that -They were made for each other. If it doesn't sound too cheesy, I'd say they were soul mates, two sides of the same coin, and all that lot."

"What did they do together?"

"Solve crimes. I don't know when they met or how they got working with the force, but when I joined they were very well respected. Sherlock was a lot more..." he paused, searching for the right word, "understanding, back then, a lot of people liked him."

John raised his eyebrows at that statement, not being able to imagine Sherlock being _liked _by _a lot _of people. "What do you mean, made for each other?"

"They were the same." Lestrade told him, simply, "Both of them geniuses. When I first met them, it was at a crime scene no one could make heads or tails of. Sherlock and Eleanor walked in, spent a minute looking round, glanced at each other and then went into a very long string of deductions. But, the most amazing thing was, they finished each other's sentences! That's how... connected, they were. They could finish each other's sentences." Lestrade repeated, shaking his head in amazement.

"What happened to her?" John finally asked - a question he had been trying to avoid. He was sure something bad must have happened.

"She went missing. One minute there- next minute, poof! Gone. Sherlock looked for her, of course, for a long time - used drugs to search for as long as possible." Lestrade's face fell, "Some people say it's the only case he never managed to solve, the one that was most important to him."

John felt something stir in his chest. Sadness, complete and utter grief for what had been and what was now impossible. He wished he'd met this girl. She seemed kind, clever but more _human _than Sherlock had ever seemed. He also wished that she was still here to help Sherlock. From what he had heard, he wasn't a match to her. Not a genius, not even clever enough to understand Sherlock's deductions without Sherlock explaining them. In the photo, Sherlock seemed so much happier, healthier, and from what Lestrade said people had respected him and actually cared for him. He wished he could have seen Sherlock like that, not the bored, cold person he knew. But then, he supposed, he saw a lot more of the "kind" side of Sherlock than most people. John knew he tried to understand people, when he could spare the time.

"What did he do then?" he questioned, timidly, quietly.

"He gave up." Lestrade shrugged.

John looked at him and Lestrade met his eyes, despair evident on his features. John thought about it - it couldn't have been easy for Lestrade. He expected that he had viewed Eleanor as a great friend and losing her must have been hard. And then watching Sherlock turn to drugs as he tried searching for her, but never finding her. That must have hurt like hell - Watching the friend he had left deteriorate so much he turned to illegal substances. From what he had seen, with the drugs bust, he expected Lestrade had been the one to put his foot down of the drugs.

John opened his mouth, another question ready on his tongue, but Lestrade interrupted him.

"Look, that's all I'm prepared to tell you. If you want more information- go to Sherlock, it's his life."

John closed his mouth, and nodded. He knew Lestrade had probably already told him more than her was comfortable with. He was right – this was about Sherlock and no one else.

Sighing, he turned towards the door. "Thank you." He said, gratefully, to Lestrade. Lestrade nodded in understanding as John left the room.

He was going to have to talk to Sherlock.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Here's Chapter 4! I'm thinking of starting a fanfiction where I do one-shots and prompts. Just out of interest, would any of you guys give me prompts to do? (no slash though)**

**Chapter 4**

John walked into 221B with a resigned sense of urgency. He knew that Sherlock would be very reluctant to talk about Eleanor – that's why he'd never heard about her before. He might even adamantly refuse to tell him anything. To be honest, that would be quite a Sherlock-y thing to do.

He ran up the stairs, into the flat, and looked around. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere. He wasn't on the sofa or on his chair or shooting the wall. He walked through the flat, checking each room as he went, until he had successfully confirmed that Sherlock was not there.

He sighed; he'd have to wait to talk to him. He picked up a newspaper, sat in his armchair and waited for Sherlock to return from wherever he had gone.

John couldn't concentrate. The crimes in the newspaper seemed so mundane compared to the cases he did with Sherlock and the mystery he was thinking about right now. He leaned back in his chair and bit his lip in apprehension. He glanced towards Sherlock's door, looked away, looked back again.

Slowly, he stood up and made his way over to Sherlock's room. He paused outside it, wondering why he was about to look for things in Sherlock's room. What if Sherlock found him or realised he'd been in there? He shook his doubts away, wrapped his hand around the door handle, and pushed the door open. He stood in the doorway, looking in, not knowing where to start.

He chose a random part of the room, searching for anything that could give him more information. He's careful to not move anything too much, being especially careful when he gets near the sock index. It's only when he gets to the book shelf that anything comes of his search. A large book pushed behind all the others, dusty, not opened for many years.

He pulled it out and balanced it on his knees. He took a deep breath and then flicked the book open. He didn't expect what was inside it. Photos, lots and lots of photos – a photo album. He stared at the pictures, trying to absorb what they all showed.

There was one with Sherlock in a suit and Eleanor in a dress holding hands – a ball then. The next few pages have goofy pictures of Eleanor waving around Police Files and Sherlock looking at things. He laughed at the some of the facial expressions Sherlock was making – never having expected to see Sherlock making face like that. He flicked past a few other pages, still amazed by how young Sherlock looked. He stops on a page with a large picture of Sherlock and Eleanor on it. Eleanor and Sherlock are hugging and the Eiffel Tower stands behind them. He frowns at the picture trying to put the information together.

So, they were together at university? That would explain the ball, and they lived together after that, solving crimes. And, at some point, they went to Paris together. He looked over the next few pages of photos. There are picture of them in the rain, laughing. One of Sherlock eating snails and one of Eleanor next to Notre Dame. He smiled at the pictures. They looked like they were having such a good time, but then his smile fell. This was one summer, but now Eleanor was gone, now Sherlock would never have a summer like that again.

He pushed the book away, suddenly feeling like he was trespassing in something so precious. He moved the book back to its original position and then got up, walked out of the room, and pulled the door closed behind him.

John walked into the kitchen and glanced at the time. He looked at the door to the stairs and sighed, knowing Sherlock may not be back for hours. In a business-like manner he pulled ingredients out of the fridge and set about making pasta for dinner. He switched on the radio as he cooked, dancing and singing along to different songs that came on. The sauce was just simmering when Sherlock finally walked through the door. John was facing the cooker, nodding his head along to the song on the radio – "Our Last Summer" by ABBA.

He turned as he heard Sherlock enter and looked at him. Sherlock was frowning, no doubt puzzling over a problem.

"Hey,, Sherlock- I'm just finishing dinner, do you want any?" he asked.

The question seemed to go straight over Sherlock's head as he pulled off his long coat. He turned to face the radio, tilting his head to one side in contemplation. Some abstract emotion danced in his eyes.

"Do we have to have this on?" He said, turning to look at John.

"No," John answered, confused. "I was just listening to it while I cooked. Is it stopping you concentrating?"

"No." Sherlock stated, "It's just very annoying... and I don't like this song." He added as an afterthought.

"Oh, please!" John exclaimed, "Do you even know what song this is?"

"Of course I do!" Sherlock snapped, "Our Last Summer by ABBA."

John stared at him, as he turned his back to him, and headed into the living room. He hadn't expected that to be the reaction to his question. Why did it mean so much?

Making up his mind, John grabbed a plate, piled pasta onto it and put a big dollop of sauce on top. He switched of the radio and followed Sherlock into the living room, where Sherlock was now reclining on the sofa, and sat down in the armchair.

He ate slowly, trying to postpone the inevitable for a long as possible. Soon, the nerves fluttering in his stomach forced him to stop eating. He set down the plate and looked at Sherlock, who was staring at the ceiling.

"Sherlock," he started. "I need to talk to you."

Sherlock didn't react straight away, but then turned his slowing his head to the side so his blue eyes were boring into John's.

John swallowed, trying to figure out the best way to go about this topic. He settled on straight to the point.

"I found something in your room this morning."

Sherlock stared at him, the only reaction a flicker in his eyes and a slight tightening to his jaw.

John continued, cautiously, "I knocked over a certificate on your chest of drawers and found a picture behind it. I wanted..." he trailed off, not knowing how to phrase the question.

Sherlock sat up, no emotion clear on his face. He looked away from John and focused on the floor. "You wanted to know who the girl was." Sherlock completed his sentence for him.

John remained silent and nodded.

"So, you went to Lestrade to try and get information, that's why there's mud from the Scotland Yard area on your shoes." Sherlock stated, "But, he didn't tell you everything, did he?" He questioned, not requiring an answer, "So, now you're asking me." He finished, simply.

John nodded, timidly. He didn't want Sherlock to feel betrayed; he just wanted him to tell him the truth.

Sherlock leaned back into the sofa and met his eyes. "I'm not that comfortable talking about it." He told him, quietly.

John looked up at him, struggling to cope with this situation. He'd never seen Sherlock like this and didn't know how to deal with it.

"I know. You don't have to tell me everything. Just... please tell me the main points." He pleaded.

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes filled with sorrow and pain. Slowly, he nodded, opened his mouth and started to tell the story.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Well, this is the second-to-last chapter :) Thank you so, so, so, so, so much for all the reviews, follows and favourites. I can't tell you how much it means to me to know that you're enjoying the story!**

**Just realized I haven't done a disclaimer for this story, so here it is: All characters (except Eleanor) belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the rest of the Sherlock cast.**

**Also, thank you to my beta LilMissNerdfighter - you're amazing! (see I used the right form of your)! **

**Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter and the next one will be up soon!**

**Chapter 5  
**

_Sherlock sat in his chemistry lecture, scribbling down notes into his book. He looked up as the door opened, a young woman walked in. Sherlock blinked, she had long blonde hair and pale skin. He tried to find things out about her by observing- he was continuingly practising the science of deduction. She had little hairs at the bottom of her trouser legs – had a cat then- dry fingers on her right hand- right-handed and had been working exceptionally hard to get into this university. He watched as the professor smiled at her and gestured for her to take the seat next to Sherlock. She approached him, set down her bag, pulled out her books and sat down. Sherlock immediately held out a hand to her._

_"I'm Sherlock Holmes." He introduced himself, smiling._

_The girl turned towards him, with mild interest. "I'm Eleanor," she replied, "Nice to meet you."_

_Sherlock nodded in agreement and turned back to concentrate on the lecture._

* * *

_Eleanor stood up as the lecture finished. "How did your experiment with hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide go yesterday?" She asked, casually. Sherlock stared at her._

_ "Um, it was okay, very interesting." He answered, "Sorry, how did you know?"_

_"There are traces of talcum powder, between your fingers and under your nails, from those stupid plastic gloves. You wouldn't have needed those gloves if you were using safe chemicals but hydrochloric acid and sodium hydroxide are both very corrosive. It must have been those two because on your pad, on the next page, there's a table of results using those chemicals." She finished and smiled._

_"The Science of Deduction? You know it too?" Sherlock asked, amazed._

_Eleanor's eyes shot to him, "Yes. Do you know it?"_

_Sherlock raised his chin slightly, "I'm practising it." He told her, defensively._

_Eleanor nodded and chucked. "I'm sure you'll become brilliant at it! Well, see you tomorrow."_

_"See you!" Sherlock called after her._

* * *

_Sherlock stands on the edge of a large hall, watching everyone else talking and laughing with their friends. He slides further into the shadows as he sees the girl he's been looking for. She comes in with her friends and she is so beautiful._

_Sherlock's heart leaps slightly and nerves flutter in his stomach. She wears a blue dress that stops just above her knees. Her long hair hangs down her back, shimmering in the light. When she laughs her eyes crinkle up and sparkle, Sherlock realises he's falling in love._

_They'd got to know each other more in their chemistry lectures, but to Sherlock, she still seemed a mystery. _

_Later into the night, Eleanor is called up to the stage. She laughs as her friends push her towards the stairs and jumps up the steps two at a time. She walks to the centre of the stage and they hand her a microphone and start up the karaoke. _

_When she starts to sing Sherlock's mouth drops open. It is sweet and melodic and a beautiful, beautiful sound. She puts all her feeling into the words, but before long the song is over. She hands the microphone to another volunteer and then walks down from the stage. As she walks down the stairs, her brown eyes find Sherlock's blue ones. She smiles and waves and Sherlock smiles back._

_She talks with her friends and then pushes past them, making her way to Sherlock's side. Her cheeks are flushed as she looks up at him._

_"Hey, how are you?" she asks._

_"I'm not bad." He answers, truthfully, "but I don't really like parties."_

_Eleanor grins at him, and then takes his hand. "Come on let's get some air, it's roasting in here!"_

_Sherlock lets her pull him outside to the lake that is close to the hall. He stands next to her, just letting the realisation that he is alone with her, so close, sink in._

_He turns to face her. The moon frames her face in a silvery light, making her skin almost shine. _

_"You're really beautiful." He tells her and then claps a hand over his mouth, realising what he just said._

_Eleanor turns to him, her eyebrows raised, but an amused twinkle in her eyes._

_"You're really handsome." She replies. _

_Sherlock stares at her for a few moments, then leans down and pressed his lips to hers. They're soft and warm, and a feeling of exhilaration shoots through him as Eleanor presses into the kiss. It's the first time he's ever kissed someone so it probably isn't the best kiss ever, but when he pulls back; Eleanor is looking at him with wide eyes, her lips parted slightly._

_"That was interesting." Sherlock said, awkwardly._

_"It was amazing." Eleanor said, reaching up and pressing her lips back onto Sherlock's._

* * *

_Eleanor and Sherlock walk into the attic of a stately home together, eyes sweeping the scene in front of them. They had been together now for three years and had started helping the police out with crime scenes, seeing as they were the best and only consulting detectives in the World. _

_Behind them came Sergeant Greg Lestrade, who had called them in to help with this case. He was willing to listen to everything the detectives could uncover and pulled out his notebook- ready to take notes._

_Eleanor and Sherlock approached the woman lying on the floor- middle aged, slit in her neck and her blood leaving a trail on the floor- one on either side of the body. They bent down in unison, both seeing so much more than the other officers present._

_After a minute of observing they stood up, looked around the room once, glanced at each other and smiled. _

_"The victim came to the party that you were talking about, last night," Sherlock started looking at Lestrade. "She came up here with someone..."_

_"She trusted." Eleanor continued, "Her wrist is broken, showing she was holding hands with someone and they spun her round very quickly..."_

_"To strike her. The wound in her neck is deep, but very precise, right on the jugular vein, this shows that the murderer..."_

_"Has killed before. There are slight indentations in the slightly rotten wood towards the stairs, where the murderer has walked, but..."_

_"They change shape at the top of the stairs – become smaller and narrower. The murderer was prepared for this murder, brought larger shoes to walk in, so he wouldn't be seen as a suspect."_

_"He?" Lestrade broke in to ask question. Eleanor looked up at him._

_"The gait shows it's a man. Also, there has to be a motive for her being murdered. There is a pale band of skin on her left hand, 4__th__ finger, where her wedding ring once was. Clearly..."_

_"Her old husband wanted revenge on her for divorcing him, so he came to the same party, convinced her to go with him to the attic and killed her. Neat." Sherlock finished, smirking slightly._

_"Not neat, Sherlock." Eleanor told him, "This women's dead. We should be sad and respect her life." _

_Sherlock coughed awkwardly, and then looked at her. "Of course, my apologies."_

_Eleanor smiled, turned towards Lestrade, and said, "Hope that helps, Lestrade."_

_"As usual, it helps an awful lot, thanks."_

_Eleanor grasped Sherlock's hand and pulled him from the room, shouting "Goodbye!" over her shoulder._

* * *

_A few months later, Sherlock and Eleanor knock on the door of a flat in London, 221B Baker Street, waiting for the little, old landlady to open the door._

_As she does, Eleanor and Sherlock both smile. Mrs Hudson invites them inside her flat, offering tea and biscuits. _

_"How did it go?" she asks, excitedly._

_"Like a dream," Eleanor replies, smiling. "Your husband is due to be executed within the week."_

_Mrs Hudson jumps up, beaming. "Oh, thank you, darlings!" she cries, hugging them both, while Sherlock and Eleanor exchange bemused looks._

_"What can I give you to repay you?" she says, stepping away and looking them over. "My flat upstairs is available; I'll even put down the rent."_

_Sherlock shakes his head. "No, it's fine, Mrs Hudson, we don't need any reward for doing our work."_

_"I insist," She tells them, strongly. "I heard you were looking for a new flat, so you can have this one."_

_"That's very kind of you. Thank you so much." Eleanor says._

_"It's no problem, dear. Just remember, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."_

* * *

_ "What would you do if I wasn't here?" Eleanor asks, from where she sits in her armchair._

_"Are you planning on leaving?" Sherlock says, curiously, as he walks into the living room from the kitchen and frowns at her. _

_Eleanor looks at his worried face and laughs. "No, stupid!" she exclaims. "Just, what if I wasn't here one day? What would you do then?"_

_"Well, you're not planning on going, so I don't have to worry about it."_

_"Sherlock," she chides. "People go missing all the time. And everyone dies in the end."_

_"If you went missing, I would find you. If you died, I don't know, I'm not sure I'd be able to survive without you."_

_Eleanor tenses in her seat - that clearly wasn't the answer she had wanted. "Just don't hurt yourself for me, promise?"_

_"I can't promise you that," Sherlock tells her. "What if you were in mortal danger and I had to save you?"_

_"You'd leave me, Sherlock." She answers, "I'm not worth your life."_

_"I don't think that. Without you what have I got?"_

_Eleanor looks at him with concern in her eyes. She then smiles "Thank you," she says, standing up and hugging him, pressing her lips to his. "I would save you in that situation too. I love you."_

_Sherlock wraps his hand around her back, kissing her back, "I love you more."_

* * *

_There were small things he remembered. The brush of a hand, the warmth of a kiss. Memories too ordinary to stay forever, but too precious to let fade away._

* * *

_The rain pours down, as they run to the nearest restaurant. When they get under the shelter of the roof, they look at each other and burst out laughing. Eleanor's hair is soaking and has gone brown, hanging down her back and Sherlock's hair is plastered to his head, the blue of his eyes shining through the sopping fringe._

_They pull off their coats and sit down, Sherlock orders a plate of snails to celebrate their trip to Paris, while Eleanor orders a crepe._

_As they wait for their food, Eleanor pulls out her camera protected from the elements by her pocket. She flicks through them, laughing at a few and smiling at others. She shows Sherlock the one of the both of them by the Eiffel Tower, the good one of her by Notre Dame and the one of Sherlock sunbathing on a patch of grass. _

_They laugh together as eat, always holding hands, and they discuss different topics – politics, cases, music. Soon, the rain stops and they stand up, pull on their coats, and get ready to go on another adventure together._

* * *

_They sat together on the grass, on their last night in Paris, watching the sunset. Eleanor snuggled closer to Sherlock, his arms wrapped around her waist._

_"It's just like the song, isn't it?" she asked._

_"Which song?" he replied, moving his head so he could see the side of her face._

_"Our Last Summer, by ABBA." she clarified. _

_Sherlock smiled into her hair, "Yes, I suppose it is."_

_With the chill of the night starting to wrap around them, Eleanor started to sing._

_"I can still recall our last summer, I still see it all," she leaned further into him as she sang. "Walks along the Seine, laughing in the rain, our last summer, memories that remain." She started to laugh, as she changed the words. "And now you're working for the law, a detective, a genius, and your name is Sherlock. How great it seems, that you're the hero of my dreams!" _

_Sherlock started to laugh with her, kissing the top of her head. "This isn't going to be our last summer though, is it?" he asked, worriedly._

_Eleanor laughed at his apprehension, wriggled round and kissed him softly on the lips. "No, of course not." _

_"I want to stay with you forever." he told her._

_"I'm fine with that,' Eleanor agreed."Forever."_


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Hi guys! So this is the last chapter. I hope you like the ending :) Thank you for reading this story! I hope you enjoyed it!**

**Chapter 6**

_The day had to come someday...  
He paces the room, pulls out his phone and dials her number. "Where are you, Eleanor?" he asks, impatiently, "We've got a case!"  
"I'm coming, Sherlock," she replies, "I'm one block away."  
"Well hurry up! I want to go to the crime scene!"  
"You sound like a child on Christmas day!" She scolds, but he can hear the smile in her voice.  
He chuckles down the phone and then hears a crack. "Eleanor?" He questions, "What was that?"  
No answer.  
He tenses. "Eleanor?" He repeats, panic rising inside him. Down the phone he hears a scream, a shout, a struggle. "ELEANOR!" he yells, desperately.  
He pockets his phone, grabs his coat and runs, calculating where she would have been while talking to him. He skids to a halt on the pavement. The empty pavement. Spins round, searching, hoping. He finds her mobile by the side of the road, picks it up, holds it tight. He finds her bag in a bush by the road, looks through it, anything to show where she might be. He finds tyre tracks on the road, large van tires. He calls Lestrade, barks orders down the phone. Greg tells him to wait. He doesn't. He runs, following the tracks, panic powering him onwards.  
He doesn't know how long he runs for. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. Time means nothing to him anymore. He finally stops when he comes to yet another dead end. His knees buckle under him, his body shaking from fatigue and exhaustion. It doesn't take long for the police to catch up.  
Lestrade kneels in front of him, places a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Come on," he says. "We can look for her tomorrow." He offers a hand, helps him to his feet. They expect him to cry. He doesn't. There's no tears left to cry with, just the numbness, the emptiness. A great hole where she should be. He won't accept that he's lost her. He won't. He turns toward the wall and vows out loud, "I'll find you, Eleanor. Whatever the cost."_

* * *

_That night the nightmares start. He sees Eleanor, bound and gagged. He sees her being assaulted on the street. He sees her struggle, fight, but be overpowered. He sees them force her into the back of a van. He sees them drive off into oblivion. He sees them torturing her, her imagined screams digging into him and ripping him apart. He sees her die. The light in her eyes flickering out, leaving darkness, emptiness and coldness behind. Hollow. He doesn't sleep much that night and they continue to haunt him for months afterwards._

* * *

_Hours of searching turn into days. Days into weeks. Weeks into months. A new clue, a new lead, a new chase, a dead end. The same cycle over and over again. Sherlock struggles on. Barely sleeps. Barely eats. They don't mean anything now, not without her there with him. The bed's cold, the table's empty. They are just for transport now. He finds a new way to survive. He has to keep going, pushing himself to his limits, again and again. He finds a new way to keep himself concentrating. Solution in a bottle, a needle pierces a vein, a drug - a stimulant- enters his body. Enough to get him through the night. He takes more the next morning and again the day after that. Slowly relying on the drug more and more.  
He doesn't let his true emotions show. Doesn't show the rawness in his chest, like his heart has shattered into a million tiny fragments. He doesn't let people know he wakes up screaming every time he does sleep. He allows the ice to creep in. It freezes over the pain. Caring is not an advantage, after all. It makes it harder to understand others, they're just stupid anyway, and he doesn't have her there to help explain emotions. He becomes weak, ill, dead. Like a body moving with no life force in it. Mechanical. A machine.  
One day he nearly dies. A year after her disappearance. A year after she left. No clue as to where she was or if she was alive or dead. Too much in the needle, apparently, the doctors told him. Lestrade found him unconscious- had to restart his heart. No one, not even himself, knows if it was deliberate or not. He is separate from everyone.  
Lestrade's next to his bed, looking at him with eyes full of concern. He speaks. The words cut deep. "Accept that she's gone, Sherlock. She's not coming back. I'll make you a deal, you give up the drugs and I'll give you cases to solve. How does that sound? She wouldn't have wanted you to become like this." That's the first time he sheds a tear. The chase is over, the game lost. He has failed, lost the most important thing to him, forever. He looks at himself in the mirror, pale, skin and bone, lank greasy hair and realises he needs to come back to life, if not for himself, then for her.  
He gives up the drugs. It hurts so much without them and he's ill for a while, unable to move or care. Soon he starts to eat again, proper meals, 3 times a day. Mrs Hudson helps. He doesn't tell her he often throws the food away, it's only for transport. She lets him keep the flat even though he can't pay all of the rent. She pities him, feels sorry for him. He doesn't need her pity. He starts to go to cases, walking into crime scenes, seeing the bodies. The first time, he says a deduction, but stops halfway through, waiting for someone to finish the sentence. She never does. He learns to say it all himself and feels her absence like a dagger in the side.  
He sees her a lot. She stands over the body, pale, not really there. Or sits in her armchair as he reels off deductions to her. She doesn't speak, doesn't touch. Sometimes there's the ghost of words or laughter, a chilly breeze that raises goose bumps on his arms feels like her stroking him. She watches him closely, but fades away too quickly. He talks to her, letting out all his pain and problems. She listens, can't comment, and slowly he heals._

* * *

_He never goes back to the way he was before her. His cheeks remain pale, cheekbones prominent. His eyes get brighter from the hollow holes they had become. But, they're only calculating, the old glimmer doesn't return. He doesn't get as close to anyone. He avoids relationships – they only cause pain, after all. He doesn't understand people, can't read their emotions. He insults them and more people turn away from him. He smiles less, lips barely turning up at the corners anymore. But, still, he's recovering._

* * *

_A man walks into Bart's hospital labs. He has a friendly, round face, an alcoholic sister, a made-up limp and a bullet wound in his shoulder. They talk and laugh, the first person he's ever truly laughed with after her. He moves in. There's less room for her now. She gets pushed from her armchair. He only catches fleeting glances now, a flash of gold hair, or pale skin, or the glitter of an eye in the darkness. But, it doesn't hurt like he thinks it should. In fact, he feels good._

* * *

He opens his eyes now he's recounted their story. He looks towards the chair she sits in, but she isn't there. Instead there's a man not a girl, with blue eyes not brown and short hair, not long. He looks at him with sadness and understanding in his eyes, and he stares back.  
A soft touch causes shivers along his arm and a puff of breath warms his ear. He hears a voice. Her voice.  
"You don't need me anymore," it tells him. "You've got him to care for." A ghost of a kiss against his lips. "Keep him safe."  
"I will, Eleanor." He says out loud, agreeing with the thing he had failed to do for her, "I promise."


End file.
